Strawberry Jam Makes a Wonderful Gift
by SlightlyCrazyYetSane
Summary: Sherlock meets John after three years. John is angry. Sherlock is unsure how to behave. John is angrier. Sherlock is shocked. John is outraged. Sherlock is seriously regretting this. John is seething with rage. Sherlock...brought jam? Rated T for John's horrible language.


**A/N: Hey. So, my very first Sherlock fic. This is a reunion fic, and though I'm rather insecure about the characterization (damn, Sherlock's PoV's hard to write), I think this turned out...okay. Well, it's either okay or disgusting, so let's go with okay. But, yeah. Thanks for reading, and please, review! I need constructive criticism––did I do it right? Did I fudge everything up? IS IT HORRIBLE? Be as callous as you want.**

**Disclaimer: _Please__. _If I owned Sherlock, I wouldn't make John wait THREE YEARS TO SEE SHERLOCK. Moffat, I don't know whether I hate you or love you...probably both. **

**Sorry for any typos and un-British-ness. I'm not British...just American. Also, the whole jam thing? Blame Tumblr.**

* * *

**Strawberry Jam Makes a Wonderful Gift**

**_prompts_**: _sign_ ; _guarantee_ ; _carrot_ ; _scarf_

* * *

The street was much quieter than the one in front of 221 Baker Street, but it was still busy. People hustled to and fro, eyes squinted at phones and bluetooth headsets on, movements brisk, impatient, and unforgiving. It was the morning rush, and there were places that people needed to be.

All but for one. A man stood in front of a small house, tall and lean, decked in a black coat that went just past his knees. A blue scarf was wrapped around his neck, a suit worn underneath. He had taken great care in putting together this costume––it had been quite a while since he had worn the coat, the scarf, or the suit. His hair had been reverted to its original black color, and his bright eyes were missing the dark contacts that he usually wore.

Sherlock looked at the jam in his left hand and then at the dark brown door in front of him, sighing as he ran a hand over his face, resting it over his mouth.

'_Bring a gift_,' Molly had said. '_He'll need something nice, especially after what he's gone through.'_

He eyed the jam again. Jam was...nice, wasn't it? He knew John was rather fond of the too-sugary, unnatural, processed substance, and strawberry had always been his favorite. Jumpers had been his first thought when the word '_gift' _had popped up––though he'd argued with Molly about gifts, for what was the _point_?––but John had too many of those. John wasn't one to wear expensive watches, either, like the one Mycroft had given Sherlock to please Mummy (one he never wore). He didn't wear cologne unless going out on a date, and it was such a useless gift, anyway. He didn't wear jewelry, or fancy shoes, or nice coats, either. So, after much deliberation, Sherlock had settled on jam––practical, tasty (in John's eyes), useful, and something they were able to share. What _else _was he to have gotten John?

Sherlock sighed again, running his hand through his hair.

...Perhaps he should've stuck to the fancy Rolex after all. Or maybe it was best to turn away. Yes, turning away would be a good idea. A rather fetching plan, really.

He turned around.

_'It's safe now, Sherlock. You can go to him,' _Molly had told him two weeks ago, a soft smile on her face, the memory stopping him from walking down the steps in front.

He gritted his teeth. He wanted to see John, but...perhaps this wasn't the best idea. No, he needed to rethink his course of action. Popping up at the house Harry and John shared after three years was a _horrible _plan, and, really, he shouldn't have let Molly talk him into it. No, a tactical retreat would be the safest option at this point––John wouldn't have to see him, and Sherlock wouldn't have to uproot his former friend's life. He didn't even know if John _wanted _to see him. He was doing them both a service by staying "dead."

Yes, this was for John. It was for the best, to leave John in the dark. It was for the best, to assure that John didn't think of him. It was for the best, then, for John to continue his belief of Sherlock's demise.

All for John. It had nothing to do with his own uncertainty, because Sherlock Holmes did _not _get nervous, did _not _doubt himself, and most certainly did _not _tuck tail and run.

Sherlock Holmes was also intelligent enough to realize when he was feeding himself disgusting lies that were so transparent even _Anderson _would've been able to see through them.

He resisted the urge to curse aloud. Was it so bad, to admit that he was...not yet prepared to face John's reaction to his reappearance? He had always been prodded to admit to his own _humanity, _and what was more human than being uncertain? There was no guarantee, after all, that John wanted to see Sherlock. His former friend was readjusting quite well to life without him.

A tactical retreat it was, then. Until John was prepared to meet his "dead" former flatmate.

Sherlock nodded to himself before clutching the jam tighter, brows furrowed. Perhaps tomorrow. Or in a week. Or, better yet, never.

He took a step forward, about to clamber down the steps, when he heard the door creek open behind him, followed by a whispered, "_Damn_, it's cold."

He would've recognized that voice anywhere. His limbs froze, eyes wide. He had to escape before the owner decided to get too curious about the stranger on his front step, but his legs _wouldn't bloody move._

_ Don't turn around, don't turn around, do not _turn around_. Walk away, Sherlock. Just _leave_._

"Oh. Well. Hullo. Can I...help you?" he heard from behind him, the friendly puzzlement in his tone so _John _that Sherlock almost whirled around, restraining himself at the last moment.

Instead, he started forward, limbs unfreezing themselves, and he bound down the stairs, making his escape.

Or, at least, that's how it would've gone if John hadn't surged forward at that precise moment and clamped onto his wrist, pulling Sherlock back.

"Is that...jam in your hands?" Sherlock could see the way John's brows would be furrowed, a perplexed frown turning the corners of his lips down, head tilted slightly to the left. "Why are you waiting outside my door with a jar of...strawberry _jam_ in your hands?"

"Not hands, John, _hand_. My left, to be precise." The words flew out of his mouth before he could clamp down on them, eyes widening as he realized the error he had made, the fallacy that was unable to be fixed.

John dropped his arm as if it had burnt him.

_Now's your chance, Sherlock, take it. _But his legs had frozen up again, a large lump wedging itself in his throat, and, suddenly, he was overtaken with the urge to turn around, to finally see his former friend's familiar face.

Sherlock was not one to deny himself indulgence, so he did what sheer impulse pushed him to do and turned around.

He was still half in the door way. His hair was grayer at the sides, but he still had styled in the same cut. His face, now draining of color, was etched with more lines, his warm brown eyes wide, chapped lips parted. He had lost weight—four and a half pounds—and he was wearing a relaxed jumper, scarf wrapped around his neck. With a pang of an unknown emotion, Sherlock noted the cane that was clutched in his left hand, the way his weight was mostly shifted to his right leg.

"Hello, John," Sherlock said, giving him a crisp nod.

John gaped at him, mouth working. "Sherlock..." he breathed before shaking himself like a wet dog. He took a step back, shut the door with a bang, and then opened it again. Stared. Blinked. Gave a nervous laugh before stepping back out, left hand reaching up to run through his hair.

"You must think I've gone bonkers. You just...remind me of someone."

"John. It's me," Sherlock said, voice lacking the usual pompous certainty.

John pursed his lips. "Right. Who—who put you up to this? Which bloody tosser—" He moved forward, throwing his head left and right, searching for someone on the bustling sidewalk before shouting out to no one, "Which bloody _WANKER—_THIS ISN'T FUNNY." A few people sent him angry looks, sneering, but John paid no heed. He turned to Sherlock, pointing a threatening finger at his chest, eyes narrowed. "This isn't funny, all right? So get the _hell_ off my front step before I call the bloody police."

"John," Sherlock tried again. "John, it's me. Sherlock Holmes."

"Right. Right, of course you are. And I'm the fucking Queen of England." He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes before opening them, glaring at Sherlock. "Are we done here? Yeah? Good. Now go away."

John made a move back, attempting to shut the door, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand. He registered that this was the perfect opportunity to leave, to escape, but he couldn't go now. Not now. Not after seeing John face to face, after being close enough to see the seriousness that had replaced the warmth in his eyes.

"John, it's me. _Sherlock_."

John wrenched open the door, causing Sherlock to stumble forth into him. He shoved him away, teeth gritted, glare intensified. "No. No, Sherlock is _dead_. I attended his funeral. I watched his casket lowered into the ground. I wrote him a fucking _eulogy_. You are not Sherlock. Sherlock. Is. Dead. You might find yourself the same if you don't get the _hell _of my property, understood?"

Sherlock stared at John. Yes, this was expected––the denial. "John," Sherlock started, voice calm and controlled, "I assure you that I am in fact Sherlock Holmes. We lived together in 221 B Baker Street. We worked together to solve crimes that Scotland Yard––useless morons that they were––were unable to, and our last interaction was with Moriarty––not Richard Brooks, but Moriarty, for Moriarty was real." When he saw that his words weren't having the desired effect, Sherlock continued, the words rushing out, "Earl Grey is your favorite tea, you enjoy it with two teaspoons of sugar and a smidgen of lemon. You loathe carrots, find scarfs itchy and bothersome, and love writing extremely emotional poetry though you are too insecure to tell anyone about it. You love jumpers because you find them comfortable and because they remind you of your mother, and your favorite thing to eat in the mornings is––was––two slices of toast with a generous amount of strawberry jam on top, a cup of tea, and a spoon of Nutella afterward." Sherlock stopped, appraising John with his eyes before cocking an eyebrow. "Shall I go on?"

John gaped at him much like a goldfish out of water, eyes wide as they searched Sherlock's face. He stared for so long, unspeaking and unmoving, face pale and hand clenched on the cane, Sherlock started shifting from foot to foot, tearing his gaze away.

He cleared his throat. "It is rather cold out––shall I come in?"

John made no move to welcome him, still frozen in place, lips thinning.

Sherlock took that as a 'yes,' and made his way past John, fighting the urge to wrap his arms around his short friend and breathe him in, wondering whether John still used that cheap lemon-scented soap.

He looked around at the apartment. It was rather bare––the stairs were located to his right, the walls were a dingy white, and the kitchen and dining room, conjoined, were visible to the front. To his immediate left was the living room, and upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bathroom. There was a sofa and a television in the living room, and the carpet was old and greying.

He preferred 221 B. He was sure that John did, too.

He turned around, about to comment on the horrible taste in sofa––chairs were so much more useful––when the sight of his friend, still at the door, back turned, stopped him. He furrowed his brows and moved forward, about to shake John's shoulder when he whirled around and stuck his cane in Sherlock's chest, the impact not jarring but enough to stop him.

"You're dead," he said, swallowing before continuing in the same strained voice, "You. Are bloody. _Dead_."

"I assure you, John, I am very much alive."

John shook his head, lips pulling into a humorless smile, "You died. I watched you die. You jumped off a bloody building, and you _died_."

"John, I thought we went over this," Sherlock said, disappointment bleeding into his tone. Yes, perhaps his arrival was a bit of a shock, but surely John would be able to discern by now that he was, indeed, Sherlock? "I'm ali––"

"YOU. BLOODY. DIED," John roared, shoving the cane further into his chest.

"Yes and no. I faked my death, and though I did not physically die, I did cease to exist to almost everyone," Sherlock explained.

"Almost everyone? _Almost _everyone?" John asked, moving forward until he was looking up at Sherlock, seething in rage.

"...Yes, Molly helped me. Lestrade also knew," Sherlock said, only after saying the words sensing that informing John was perhaps not the most prudent thing to do.

John blinked up at him, seeming to deflate as his eyebrows furrowed. "Molly? Lestrade? As in, Molly Hooper and Gregory Lestrade?"

Sherlock breathed an internal sigh of relief. It seemed he had calmed down. "Yes."

He didn't see the punch coming until it was too late.

Sherlock reeled back, clutching his jaw and staring at John in shock. "What was that f––"

"You mean to tell me that MOLLY AND LESTRADE _KNEW_? THEY FUCKING _KNEW _THAT YOU WEREN'T DEAD, AND THEY DIDN'T _TELL_ ME? AND WHY DIDN'T _YOU _TELL ME, SHERLOCK? WAS IT TOO FUCKING HARD TO PICK UP A BLOODY PHONE AND BLOODY _TEXT _ME? YOU COULDN'T BE FUCKING BOTHERED TO TELL YOUR BLOODY BEST FRIEND THAT YOU WERE BLEEDING _ALIVE_?" He took a deep breath before shouting, "DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU PUT ME THROUGH, SHERLOCK? I FUCKING WAITEDFOR YOU, EVERY BLOODY DAY, HOPING THAT YOU'D PRANCE UP THE STEPS AND LEAD ME AWAY ON A STUPID CASE. I COULDN'T LOOK AT THAT BLOODY SKULL OF YOURS WITHOUT BURSTING INTO TEARS. AND YOU DECIDED TO TELL _**MOLLY AND LESTRADE AND NOT ME**_**?**"

Sherlock gulped, still clutching his jaw, staring at John. This was not expected. He had known that John would be upset, had expected it, but this...this was not expected. He understood that John was angry, didn't blame him, but was there no way to calm him––

The gift.

_Of course_. The gift was there to ensure that John could calm down. _That_ was why Molly had insisted.

He raised his other arm, watching John as he huffed and puffed to regain breath, and blurted out, "I brought jam."

John paused, staring at him, eyebrows raised. "You...brought jam?" he asked, and Sherlock was relieved to find the anger gone.

However, the sigh of relief was taken too soon.

"You brought jam? You _brought jam_? WELL, THAT JUST MAKES EVERYTHING ABSO-FUCKING-LUTELY OKAY, BECAUSE, HEY, AT LEAST YOU HAD THE DECENCY TO _**BRING JAM**_, YEAH?"

"Wait, no, I didn't mean––" Sherlock backtracked.

"You didn't mean to _what_? Put me through hell? Make me watch your funeral? Force me to attend therapy AGAIN? IT'S A BIT LATE, SHERLOCK, FOR 'I DIDN'T MEAN'S, BECAUSE GUESS WHAT? I DON'T FUCKING CARE WHAT YOU WERE _MEANING _TO DO." John descended upon him, swinging punch after punch, fueled by rage, and Sherlock bobbed and weaved and blocked, trying to get a word in, trying to explain why it was necessary.

"You don't understand, John, I had to––"

"––TOOK FIVE MONTHS BEFORE I COULD EAT PROPERLY––"

"––to ensure that Moriarty was dead and wrap up all loose ends––"

"––SPENT EVERY WAKING BREATH HOPING, PRAYING FOR A MIRACLE––"

"––couldn't come, had to ensure your and Mrs. Hudson's safety––"

"––SPIRALED INTO DEPRESSION––"

"––if you'd just listen, John, you'll see––"

"––BROKE DOWN AT THE SLIGHTEST MENTION––"

"––my reasons make sense, John, I assure you––"

"––I FUCKING WAITED FOR YOU, SHERLOCK, EVERY BLOODY DAY!"

And all at once, John seemed to lose all energy. His punches stopped, his arms limp as he clutched the lapels of Sherlock's coat, and when he looked up, Sherlock was horrified to see the misty film in his eyes as he choked out, "I waited for you," before looking back down.

Sherlock Holmes, child prodigy, certified genius, the man-who'd-outlive-God-trying-to-get-the-last-word, had no words to say in answer. Instead, he stiffened before hesitantly wrapping his arms around John's shaking shoulders, whispering, "I'm sorry, John, I truly am."

John still used the lemon-scented soap, Sherlock noted.

They stayed that way for what could've been a few seconds or a few eternities, Sherlock feeling his heart blossom with warmth at the fact that he was _with John _and his stomach drop with guilt every time he felt the small shake of shoulders or the quiet sniffle.

John broke away first, looking away as he pawed the tears away as Sherlock straightened his clothes and scanned the room, averting his eyes from John's figure. The telly had a distasteful lace doily sitting atop it––probably Harry's doing.

John cleared his throat and Sherlock's eyes zapped back onto him, feeling his own lips stretch into a small smile as he saw the hesitant grin on John's face.

"So. You had jam?"

Sherlock's smile widened.

Jam had been the perfect gift.

* * *

**Angry!John is so fun to write! But, um, yeah. This is pretty meh. Don't quite like it. But...hey. Let me know what you thought, yeah? I'd be grateful~! *gives you Sam-Winchester-style puppy-dog eyes* Please? **

**See ya, mon cherie. **


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